Page 17 of Daring the Hockey Player

Thankfully, I'm twenty-one now, so I don't have to worry about the guys giving me shit when I can only drink soda because the owners and staff of the tap house know the team well enough to know who is under twenty-one.

We have a few underage guys, but they don't tend to frequent Blue Line with us. I know they go to a couple of other local bars and try to stay under the radar with their fake IDs because I've been invited out with them when I was twenty.

I don't need to fuck up my career over a couple of beers. That's one type of publicity that I don't need.

I let the guys with their wives have the booth, and I grab a seat on the stool at the end of the table. The waitress comes over, already knowing our usual, and ensures we don't need anything else before bringing us a round.

The guys are chatting and drinking, and I scroll through my phone, distracted, while I wait for another beer to come.

Owen and Noah are conversing about the game, how we kicked the shit out of the Island Bruisers. That was fun.

I shouldn't even bother looking at my phone. There are no new texts from Amber, not that I expect her to send anything to me. It surprised me that she sent anything at all, and the snarkiness in her tone about my jersey being sweaty—heaven help me.

There aren't too many girls I've had my eye on lately. I've kept my head down, focused on the sport, and finally got the contract that I wanted. Being a rookie isn't half bad since they actually let me play, and I'm not benched most of the game.

Asher and Kate are making out in the back booth. You'd think, for a married couple, the heat between them would simmer, but after winning a game, they always seem cozy.

"Get a room, you two," I say and flip a bottle cap at them.

It bounces off the table and hits Asher in the arm. He ignores me, shoving his tongue down his wife's throat. Nothing distracts those two, not even if the fire alarm went off or if there was an all-out brawl in the bar.

My attention returns to my cell phone, and I can't help but notice that Amber Ryan liked my most recent post and followed me on Instagram. I click her profile, grab my beer, and take a swig, spitting it out the minute I get a better look at her picture.

"She's a fucking Bruisers fan," I mutter too loudly.

Owen pats me on the back and hands me a napkin. "Do we need to buy you a bib?"

"Shut it," I growl at him and flip through her pictures, shaking my head. She took quite a few at the arena, all of them in that stupid blue jersey.

Gripping the bottle, I take another swig of beer, seeing red as I glance up from my phone.

Her brunette hair, mixed with red highlights, shimmers as she steps into the bar.

"No fucking way."

And she's not wearing my jersey. She's wearing that damn Island Bruisers jersey again.

FIVE

AMBER

The Ice Dragonsjersey that Jasper tossed at me over the glass was a nice gesture, but it smelled like sweat, not to mention it was wet. Like, completely covered in sweat and even had a dab of blood here and there from the fight.

I could save it, maybe even sell it online, but wear it? No chance in hell was I putting that jersey on over my body.

Not until it had a nice, hot run through the washing machine.

Sure, a little bit of a man's scent is a good thing. It's primal. Sexual. Enticing.

No. This jersey stunk like he'd bathed in a swamp and battled a dragon afterward.

Gross.

I appreciate the gesture and the sentiment, although I think it's more to do with wanting my sister happy. I saw him and his brother talking before he tossed me the jersey.

But then Charlotte did the unthinkable and shoved it over my head when I wasn't paying attention.

I screamed like I walked in on someone being brutally murdered.